


Mismatched Buttons

by JessiRomantic



Category: Harry Potter - J. K. Rowling
Genre: Canon Compliant, Cute, Domestic, Family, Family Feels, Family Fluff, Gen, Mother-Son Relationship, Motherhood, One Shot, POV Molly Weasley, Post-Hogwarts, Pre-Epilogue, Short One Shot, Warm and Fuzzy Feelings
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2020-06-24
Updated: 2020-06-24
Packaged: 2021-03-03 19:48:38
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,049
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/24861082
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/JessiRomantic/pseuds/JessiRomantic
Summary: Molly Weasley's children may be grown and have all moved out, but all of them still need their mother in different ways. None more so than Ron.
Comments: 4
Kudos: 6





	Mismatched Buttons

**Author's Note:**

> This little bit of head canon was inspired by a conversation with At3misiA on the Weasleys, Witches and Writers group on Facebook. I have also drawn a little something to accompany it which you can check out on my Instagram @JessiRomantic. I hope you enjoy this little bit of warm-fuzzies!

Though all of her children were grown up and she had her first grandchildren under her belt, Molly Weasley still stepped into the role of doting mother with an alarming frequency. This demonstrated itself in different ways for each of her children. Ginny would Floo call her every week to update her with how she and Harry were doing, even two years after she had moved out and six months after the pair had married. Molly was there to lend a sympathetic ear when her daughter complained about Harry’s habit of taking the full bin bag out of the bin, but would never seem to put a new liner in, or give advice to her when she was worrying about what to do next in her Quidditch career. Charlie would send letters home every three months or so asking for some home cooking. Molly would send a care package back, full of steak and ale pies, fruit cake, and a selection of his favourite treats from Honeydukes. Percy, after a particularly stressful week at work, was known to apparate into the living room unannounced to apologise for past and long since forgotten transgressions. Molly would pull him over to the sofa and into her arms, then stroke his hair, whispering that everything was forgiven and that she knew he was sorry until he calmed down.

The one that was finding it hardest to let go of her influence and care was Ron. The man was twenty-four, had a great strategic mind, and had become a completely capable Auror, but seemed completely unable to do menial tasks. He would come to the Burrow at least once during the week for a good home-cooked meal, or with his laundry in tow, or a pile of ironing.

Today was one such day. Molly had been bustling in her kitchen, putting the finishing touches on dinner ready for Arthur to be home, when she heard the sound of the Floo and the telltale thunk of someone landing in her grate. She glanced at her clock to see that it was not Arthur home early from work, but her youngest son.

“Mum!” he yelled from the living room. Letting out a sigh and wiping her flour covered hands on her apron, before flicking her wand to remove it from her person and fold it on the kitchen counter, and made her way through to meet Ron with a smile.

He smiled and hugged her when she walked up to her, “Ooh, what smells so good?” he asked, sniffing the air distractedly.

“Irish stew,” Molly replied, her lips quirking upwards, “I’ll give you a portion to take back to the flat.”

He grinned, “Thanks, Mum!”

She smiled back, then raised her eyebrow, “What brought you over here today? It can’t have been to steal my food.”

“Oh, yeah,” Ron said, looking sheepish. “Do you mind sorting these shirts out for me, a few of them have holes and there are others with missing buttons. I kept meaning to…”

“No worries, love,” she cut him off. “I’ll sort them. I’ll have them ready when you come over for family dinner on Sunday.”

“Thanks, Mum, you’re the best!” Ron beamed and hugged her tightly. “I’ll see you for dinner in a few days, love you!” he said before rushing through the Floo and calling out the address for his London flat.

Molly made her way over to her wing-backed chair beside the fire and placed the pile of shirts beside her, thinking to make a start while waiting for her husband to return from work. Beside her chair sat an old fashioned sewing stool. Inside was a round plastic tub that in a former life contained margarine spread. The bright sunflower on the top and side of the tub had faded and scratched away over time, but the box itself remained undamaged. It was a box that each of her children knew intimately well, as its presence would flit in and out of their childhood years. Its contents, of course, was no longer the sunflower spread. It now contained something that Molly Weasley held more sacred than she would care to admit.

Inside the little tub were a plethora of buttons. Buttons that came from the shirt that Arthur had worn to their first Hogsmede date. As well as buttons from the gloves her mother had worn to her small and rushed wedding two years after that first date. The buttons from the front of her first pregnancy robe that she wore when Bill was on his way. Buttons from trousers, and blouses, and skirts, and capes. Buttons with sad stories, and happy stories, and no story at all.

She plucked the light blue cotton shirt that was lying on the top of the pile and assessed the damage. Upon her inspection, she found that there was a single button missing from the front. And so, once again, she found herself rummaging through her little tub of buttons.

A few days later, her youngest son was leaning against her kitchen counter munching on a freshly baked sausage roll.

“Thanks for this, Mum,” he said, flakes of pastry falling from his mouth to the floor and sticking to his jumper, “I was running out of decent shirts.” Molly only smiled before passing him a sheet of kitchen roll to wipe the crumbs from his face where they had stuck to the scruff on his chin.

Glancing down at the pile of freshly washed, ironed and neatly folded shirts, Ron frowned. “Hey, this button doesn’t match with the others,” he said pointing at the neatly stitched dark grey button that Molly had selected to put on his pale blue shirt.

Molly did her best really, Ronald? look before saying, “Stop eating those, you’ll ruin yourself for dinner,” she lightly scalded, “I didn’t have one the right colour.”

“In that tub of yours? I doubt that,” Ron scoffed. “I was talking to George about this the other day, he said that you do it every time you replace buttons.” Taking another sausage roll from the cooling rack beside him, he took a large bite and looked back at the shirt. His face moved from annoyance to recognition, “Wait… is that the button from my travelling cloak when I was younger?”


End file.
